queen of hearts
by TheVerbalThing ComesAndGoes
Summary: The joker ain't the only fool who will do anything for you. Puck/Quinn. Sequel to "just a heartache in disguise".


queen of hearts

Summary: The joker ain't the only fool who'll do anything for you. Quinn/Puck. Companion piece to "just a heartache in disguise".

Reading "just a heartache..." isn't necessary but why wouldn't you? (it's more Quick to love)

Disclaimer: story title and summary come from a Juice Newton song of the same name.

**A/N**: even though the main pairing in this story is Quinn/Puck, it also includes other pairings, so just an fyi. also, important to note that the story jumps between past and present, so tense changes are intentional. this didn't turn out entirely the way i'd intended but...read, review, and enjoy.

* * *

><p>"Why do you keep coming here?"<p>

He asked the question to a darkened room; the only indication that she was awake and listening to him at all was the hitch in her breathing, the subtle tightening of her fist as it wrapped around the hem of his shirt.

"Why do you let me in?" She asked, her breath tickling his neck; the question was formed in a breathy sigh that always had him wondering whether or not he's being played. Whether or not this was, to her, simply a game, a method to test out his responses and reactions; nothing more than a way for Quinn to discover new buttons to push. "You could have shut the door in my face. Told me to leave." She sighed. "Honestly, the first couple of times I thought you would."

Puck rolled his eyes at her never-ending ability to evade and deny. It was frustrating, to say the least. "It's not the same-"

"It's _exactly_ the same." She pulled his face toward hers by tugging on the nape of his neck, stopping him when he was only a few inches shy of her lips meeting his. "It always will be."

* * *

><p>His jaw clenches, taut with unresolved resentment, as his shoulders go rigid with disbelief - an innate, instinctive response to being forced to hear her name after so long. "She has a husband," he insists, quietly yet heatedly. "Call <em>him<em>."

"Well, unless _his_ name is Noah Puckerman, she don't want 'em here."

He isn't surprised that there's no one else – honestly, she's never really had the greatest friends, never been the kind of person to get too close to people – but he can't understand her telling this guy to call _him_, of all people. If he's really the only one she can call, if _he's _her last resort, then that leads him to believe she must have really fucked up along the way somewhere. "I haven't even talked to her in, like, two years. Why the hell is she asking for me?"

"Look, I don't know," the voice on the other end drawls, "but she can't exactly stay here all night. So either you're coming to get her or you're not. And if not, then I can just take her on down to County for the night and she can sleep it off there—"

He knows what he should say.

Puck is nowhere near close to being in the mood to dealing with this. He doesn't _have _to deal with this - with her.

He knows what he should say: _"Take her. So the fuck what? __I don't care. __She's not my problem. She _can't be_ my problem."_

He knows that's what he needs to say.

He also knows that it's exactly what he _won't_ say.

Puck exhales heavily through his nose, running his hand through his short, cropped hair. A glance at his closed bedroom door lets him know he's still in the clear, but guilt, an emotion he's become well acquainted with over the years, still courses through him. He shouldn't even be _thinking_ about this. The answer, he knows, should be simple. But nothing ever is when it comes to Quinn. "...I'll be there in twenty minutes." He hangs up the phone, not needing to wait for a response.

_You don't need to do this. Not today, _his mind admonishes, though it's useless, he knows, as he clutches his car keys tightly in one hand and hastily scrawls a vague, non-descriptive note about when he'll be back with the other.

His mind was already made up about what he was going to do the moment he heard her name on the other end of the line and that she needed him.

And Puck very nearly hates himself for it.

* * *

><p>Somehow it made everything easier - or, at least, that was what they told themselves - to say that the only reason they kept going back to each other was because of randomness and recklessness: the consequences of a series of one night stands nearly four years ago when they were stupid, immature teenagers; the life they created together and the life they, unexpectedly, lost. He wasn't sure if either of them would ever be able to admit out loud that it was more than just that. He wasn't sure either one of them would be able to define what, exactly, they were.<p>

Puck bit back an aggravated groan as her left hand brushed against the back of his neck; he hated the feeling of her ring against his skin. Its coolness, a contrast to their feverish skin, was distracting; its intended meaning and depth something that, in spite of his best efforts, he could not will himself to ignore or forget. He sighed, his annoyance more obvious, once he felt it again, this time against his chest. He tugged on her hand, skillful enough not to let his fingers touch the engagement ring wrapped around her finger. "Take that off."

She frowned. "What? No."

"Quinn," he murmured, his tone bordering between imploring and pleading but never quite reaching vulnerability; he knew better.

"Oh, you're begging now?" she asked teasingly.

He pulled her earlobe between his teeth, tugging with just enough force to make her groan. "Take it off."

"I..." She sighed when he tugged again. "Okay." The solid gold ring landed on the nightstand with a quiet ping that echoed throughout the room and Puck reveled in one of the rare moments that Quinn relented to one of his demands. He rolled her so that she was laying solidly beneath him, legs wrapped definitively around his waist, and a ragged exhale escaping her lips once they were connected.

Though release was achieved, afterwards they both remained pensive, the space between them filled with an awkward tension that never seemed to fully diminish or fade.

He took a breath before making a decision. "...You know, you said once that you would leave him if I just asked you to." He could feel Quinn starting to squirm already, long before he had even finished uttering the entire sentence. His stomach dropped, but he still pushed forward, knowing he would probably regret it anyway. "Well, this is me asking you to."

She shook her head almost immediately, eyeing Puck with a look that he guessed was meant to intimidate him into backing down. He didn't.

"That... was a long time ago," she said slowly. "Like, months ago. I can't just _leave _him now. The wedding's in—"

"I don't give a shit," Puck interrupted hotly. His jaw clamped down harder as she scoffed, turning her head to avoid his glare. "What are you so fucking scared of?"

Her eyes narrowed dangerously as she whipped her head over her shoulder to face him. "I'm not _scared_—"

"Please, Quinn, I know you and I know when you're freaked. You're fucking _terrified_ right now."

Quinn pulled herself up so that she was sitting, their bodies no longer touching and leaving him feeling bereft at the loss of contact. "No, I'm not. I'm just - we're trying to make this work-"

"Right. Trying to make it work with your asshole fiance means fucking me on a regular basis?"

"That 'asshole' used to be your best friend," Quinn replied pointedly.

"Yeah, _used_ to be." Puck shook his head. "You're seriously going back to him now, Quinn?"

"It's getting late. I should-"

"I _don't_ care."

"I can't just leave him at the altar, Puck. do you know how long we've been together?"

"About as long as you've been coming here, right?" he retorted. "I mean, give or take a few weeks."

Quinn sighed heavily, aggravated, and the moment she reached towards the nightstand to grab her ring, he swore he felt his heart fall to his feet. "Just... don't ask me to do this, Puck. Please." She wasn't even looking at him when she slid her engagement ring back on her finger, where it had always been, like it'd never left.

A moment of silence passed between them before Puck nodded shortly. "Well, I won't. Not anymore." This was one of those moments where he hated the fact that she always came to him, invaded his space - never giving him the opportunity to really escape when he'd had enough of her complete and utter bullshit. Puck didn't say anything as he slid off the bed, pushing Quinn's hand away as she reached for him, and stormed into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him.

"Puck!" She banged on the door seconds later, but there was nothing left to say, really.

When he came out twenty minutes later, any trace of her was gone.

He still went to the wedding; as he watched her smile falsely underneath a white veil of hypocrisy, Puck wondered if this was her own form of self-punishment. A part of him - as pathetic as he knew it was - still held out on the hope that she wouldn't go through with it. That Quinn would realize she was worth more than the mediocre life she seemed to think she deserved.

She didn't.

* * *

><p>She's cut her hair again.<p>

It's the first thing Puck notices; the shortened blonde strands brushing against the bare nape of her neck. He shakes his head, reminding himself - _warning _himself - that he can't become anymore ensnared by the presence of Quinn Fabray than he has in the past.

"You here for that one?"

He recognizes the accented drawl from the phone call nearly thirty minutes earlier and turns to see a stout man sporting a grizzly beard and a trucker hat, the sleeves of his dirty flannel shirt rolled up to his elbows. For the second time since pulling into the parking lot of the bar, Puck wonders what the hell Quinn is doing in a place like this. He points toward an all too familiar form leaning sloppily against the bar a few feet in front of them.

Puck exhales heavily, nodding. "Yeah."

"Good; didn't think you'd make it. She calmed down a few minutes ago but she's still-"

"A mess?"

The man shrugs. "Your words, not mine. Just get her out of here before she realizes that water in her glass ain't tequila."

He takes a step forward, and forces himself to say, "Quinn."

She sets the shot glass in her hand down on the bar top in front of her and turns to face him. A lazy smile slowly etches its way onto her lips once she realizes he's standing in front of her. "You came."

"You asked them to call me," he reminds her flatly.

"Have a drink with me, Puck," she requests, leaning forward to rest a hand on his forearm. Puck ignores the deliberate, put-upon sultriness she adds to her tone that he's not entirely sure she means and immediately shrugs off her touch. "Aw, come on... don't be like that."

"Yeah, well, that's the way it needs to be, Quinn."

She pouts. "You used to like it when I touched you."

"I'm not doing this with you, Quinn. Not today. The only reason I even came here was to keep you from ending the night with your car wrapped around a tree. So you can either take the ride from me or let Farmer Joe over there take you down to the County Jail to sleep in like he originally planned."

Her bemused pout quickly falls into a frown. "Fine." She slides off the bar stool, stumbling only slightly as she follows him out the door.

* * *

><p>He knew that knock.<p>

Soft and quiet; hesitant, yet determined. It had been over a month since he'd heard it last, but he recognized it all the same. Puck sighed, slipping out of his bed to answer the door before the sound awoke the tiny brunette sleeping in his bed. He was more than grateful for the fact that she slept so soundly, but he wasn't about to press his luck by taking his time getting to the door.

He opened it to find, unsurprisingly, Quinn on the other side. She was standing in the doorway to his apartment, leaning in a way that caused the front of her coat to gape open, revealing a dress too low-cut and too well-fitting for her - or his - own good.

"I was in the neighborhood," she answered his unasked question, the one he was sure she could read all over his face. She shifted her stance against the door frame, causing the light in the hallway to reflect off of the ring on her finger. He scoffed.

"Does he know you're here?"

"Of course not." A beat passed between them Quinn smoothly arched one eyebrow, her head slightly tilted to one side. "You're making me wait? That's new."

Puck held steady onto the door, unmoving, and his face devoid of emotion. "I can't let you in."

"Why not?" He didn't answer right away, an inaction that caused Quinn's face to harden into a stony expression of anger and suspicion. "Is there someone else here?"

"You think that's the only reason I would say no to you, Quinn?"

"Well, it certainly explains why you won't even let me in the fucking doorway, _Puck_," she countered angrily, spitting out his name in a way that she always knew he hated. "Who is she?"

Puck ignored the question, knowing that telling her who was sleeping in his bed - confirming her suspicions - would do nothing but make the situation worse, not better. "_You_ made the choice to marry him-"

"So is that why you're with her?" Quinn laughed coldly. She shook her head, and Puck couldn't help but feel the expression on her face was nothing more than pity. "Does she know that she's only a temporary replacement for me?"

Puck took a step forward and closed the door behind him, eyes narrowed into a glare as he leaned down to look her in the eyes. "Fuck you, Quinn."

"Isn't that what you want? To have me?" Quinn leaned forward, her tone low and dangerous. "To fuck me?"

He wondered if she actually believed that was all he wanted - all he needed - from her. He stepped forward into her space, despite his instincts telling him to do the opposite; he ignored the inaudible gasp that escaped her lips, unable to enjoy catching her off guard - just once - and he reminded himself that wrapping his arm around her waist and pulling her body towards his like his hands were itching for him to do would be a mistake, and it wouldn't make this - sending her away - any easier.

"If that was all I wanted you for, I would've slammed the door in your face the second time you showed up here. It's not about that," he admitted heatedly, "and you know it."

"You've never had a problem with this before—"

"You weren't _married _before."

"Why does that matter now?" she demanded. For a brief, unexpected moment, the tides of emotion changed visibly in her eyes and her guard was down. The glimpse of vulnerability he was allowed was wholly unexpected and Puck wasn't at all prepared to deal with it.

Not the right way, at least.

"Of course it fucking matters now!"

"Why? Because of _her_?" Quinn questioned, her voice shrill. "You weren't supposed to just _move on_, Puck!" she cried angrily, her hands balling into fists. She looked dangerously close to hitting him.

_She_ was the one who chose to marry Finn Hudson, because she thought it was some twisted form of retribution, because, to her, this was her way of making up for everything she'd done wrong every lie she'd ever told - and would continue to tell - and Finn was dumb enough to think it would work. Which, clearly, it didn't otherwise Quinn wouldn't be here, on his doorstep, practically begging him to sleep with her, when she was supposed to be on her honeymoon.

And in that moment, Puck was certain he came close as close as he ever would to hating her.

Because he was nowhere _near_ being over her, nowhere close to being able to move on, despite the amazing girl who'd taken a chance on him and was laying in his bed, while thoughts of Quinn always played in the back of his mind.

In the middle of their heated exchange, the space between them had decreased without his full awareness and before he could wrap his mind entirely around what it was that they were doing, he had Quinn pinned against the wall opposite his apartment door, gripping her hips tightly enough to make her gasp, her mouth opening underneath his. Their tongues clashed, dueling angrily; he felt her nip at his bottom lip and matched her fervor with equal enthusiasm. She slid her hand up his neck to pull him closer, her nails digging slightly into his skin and making him groan. She moaned his name into his mouth and wrapped one leg around his hips. Her other hand slipped to his waist, which he noticed but didn't pay much attention to, that is, until he felt her cool palm on his stomach, fingers reaching towards the zipper on his jeans.

"No." He pulled away. "We can't do this. I can't-"

"Puck-"

"Go home to your husband, Quinn." He went back inside and closed the door behind him, never letting himself look back.

* * *

><p>Puck is already sitting behind the wheel of his truck by the time Quinn slides into the passenger seat. He clenches the steering wheel tightly enough to turn his knuckles white as he drives out of the parking lot and onto the road.<p>

"I didn't think you'd come."

He doesn't call her out on her bullshit. He knows that if she thought for even a minute that there was a chance he wouldn't come get her, she wouldn't have called him; even drunk, Quinn is far too prideful to have risked a potentially wounded ego. "I'm glad you did, though." He registers movement out of the corner of his eye. She's leaning towards him. "I've missed you," she says, softly.

Puck clenches his jaw. "Don't, Quinn."

"What? I have. And I know you've missed me. I can tell." Her hand is on his thigh and he has struggle to remember how he allowed that to happen. His jaw clicks.

"You're drunk—"

"Not _that_ drunk, Puck." She frowns. "Where are we going?"

"Nowhere," Puck replies smoothly. He doesn't tell her that he very nearly drove back to his apartment with her without thinking, which would, he knows, wreck everything. He tosses Quinn his cell phone and she clumsily accepts it, putting space in between them. "Call Finn."

"No."

"Why?"

"I called you," she evades instead. "I don't need to call him."

"Trouble in paradise, huh?" he retorts. And almost immediately he regrets it; he doesn't want to hear anything about how wrong he is, about Quinn's blissful marriage with Finn Hudson and how he's made her happier than Puck ever could.

No matter how much he may have wanted to.

"There is no paradise," she confesses, quietly.

"What?"

She takes a breath before admitting: "Divorce was finalized last week. Just in time, huh?"

"What happened? You cheat on him again?" He doesn't mean it, not entirely, but it's so easy to fall into their default pattern of hurting each other with verbal jabs and barbs, that Puck never really knows entirely where the line is.

She glares at him with as much half-drunken venom as she can muster. "Screw you, Puck—"

"Come on, Quinn. Don't act like you're above it."

"I never slept with anyone else."

"Other than me and Finn?"

"_No_."

He tells himself it doesn't matter. Doesn't change what they've been through, what they've put each other through, or where they are now. "It doesn't matter," he says out loud, just to remind himself. It doesn't work as much as he was hoping it would.

"Why? Because of Rachel?" she asks, practically sneering. It's more than obvious she disapproves.

He doesn't ask how she knows. He's not surprised really - Rachel and Finn have always been suspiciously, predictably close, even with miles of Ohio grassland and New York City streets and Lima and Broadway between them, feeding into Rachel's need to never burn bridges, not even with her exes - Puck just didn't expect Quinn to actually _say_ it. Still, he doesn't go into the details of how it happened: the night of Finn and Quinn's wedding, a spontaneous encounter at first, that developed into an occasional weekend visit here and there and eventually more and now...this. Him, getting out of Lima and moving to the city.

He nods. But he doesn't go into all the details.

"That's just great, Puck," Quinn murmurs sarcastically, "Good for you. So my divorce is final and you're...with _her _and now I'm _stuck here_—"

"You don't have to be, Quinn."

She shakes her head, biting down on her bottom lip, leaning against the headrest of the passenger seat as she turns to look at him. "Do you ever...think about the baby and what would have happened if—"

"Probably more than I should," he admits.

"...I'm staying at a place up the street, over on Peach Street, Could you take me there?"

* * *

><p>He closes the apartment door behind him with a soft click. He steps forward, sidestepping taped up cardboard boxes scattered about, surprised to see Rachel sitting on the couch, her feet curled up underneath her. "Hi."<p>

"Hey. I thought you would be sleeping."

"Someone's car alarm kept going off and I woke up when I realized you were gone." She's wringing her hands nervously, her wide brown eyes brimming with a sudden onset of uncertainty and insecurity. "Where were you?"

"I had to—" He stops, tries again. "A friend needed help."

"It's 3 a.m," she says pointedly. He sighs then, caught between truth and consequence. "It was Quinn, wasn't it?"

He falters. "I... How did you know?"

"I could tell by the look on your face," Rachel concedes quietly.

"I just - she needed a ride," he says insistently. He sits down on the couch beside her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders.

"Noah, are you—" she pauses to lick her lips. "are you absolutely sure that you're over Quinn?"

"Yes. Rach," Puck promises, "and I'm doin' this New York thing."

He just doesn't know, should he get another call from Quinn like he got tonight, if he can promise that he'll be able to tell her no.

If the sinking feeling in his gut is anything to go by, he doesn't think so.


End file.
